THE SHOP AND THE SHAY.
"Our life is twofold," Byron says; and it's very certain that we pass an equal part before and behind the curtain;—from the chandler, whose trade's his prop, and contrives, all the week, to stop behind the counter of his shop, in the midst of red-herrings and split peas, French eggs, Prussian blue, Irish butter, and Dutch cheese, with many other articles similar to these—but Sunday he gives up to ease; and, "cutting the cheese" for the day, with his shay, makes a little display, and off for a trip drives away, with his wife in a toilet most gay, to 'bide by his side, with the pride of a bride, for a ride where their own wishes guide.
Then there's the gentleman some folks call a fop, who lodges very near the house-top, and dines off a solitary chop, in a coat too worn even to pop, and which no old clothesman would swop—that's the shop!—Then he turns out a dandy complete, to swell up and down Regent Street, with neat polished boots on his feet, not in dread of the friends he may meet, nor anxious to shuffle away—that's the shay!
And next, Mrs. Brown, in a fright, that her seventeen daughters, in spite of their figures so slight, and eyes bright, do not marry as fast as they might, determines her friends to unite, and sends out to each an invite; and all the day's in a sad plight, herself putting up each wax light, in order that all may go right, as she trusts the blanc mange will be white, and not spoilt by her own oversight; and, by evening, is ready to drop—that's the shop!—And when night comes, rewarding their pains, her daughters, in mousselain-de-laines, with flushed cheeks and quick-throbbing veins, to the cornet-à-piston's shrill strains, are flying about with their swains, whom they hope to entrap in their chains, as fast as a set of mail trains; and all is as gay as a bright summer day—that's the shay!
And the young opera danseuse, who goes to learn how to walk on her toes, or study each elegant pose, to an audience of empty pit rows, in her toilet of everyday clothes, with her cheeks pale as death, and her nose, from the cold, almost couleur de rose, the which she incessantly blows, as she goes through each posture and hop—that's the shop!—And, at night, from her place at the wing, she comes on the stage with a spring, and plaudits throughout the house ring, at the sight of so sylph-like a thing, and her lover's the son of a king, round whose neck her white arms fondly cling, until pulled aloft by a string, she floats on a bright canvas sunbeam away—that's the shay!
And the poor scribbling author, whose will is a few brilliant thoughts to distil, that may flow with his ink from his quill: who grinds his brains just like a mill, in his garret deserted and chill, and thinks till he makes himself ill, in the hopes that his pockets may fill, when the publisher praises his skill, and who trusts, from his efforts, to reap a good crop—that's the shop!—And when his said work proves a hit, and the sharpest reviewers admit, that it shows many traces of wit, and he's thought for their coteries fit, and soon of his debts can get quit, no longer obscurely to flit, but soar in the day—that's the shay!
The Shop and the Shay.